I passed row of warehouses selling new skin
stolen from insects, plants and beasts.

Loose-hanging trophies of every colour,
each one a badge of status, rank and creed

snatched out of order and taken to shy boxes;
some are favoured, some discarded.

At the centre, a gleaming white temple where novices wear orange
and the wise man sits on high behind a metal shrine.

The holy relics come in many shapes and sizes,
but all bear the emblem of the sacred fruit.

A blue-clad initiate with a silver tongue
tried to sell me a box of prayer.

In the middle of a field of silver mushrooms
and queer, silent quadrupeds,

you’ll find a legal drug market
selling liquid happiness in heated ships.

Hesitantly, they kiss the vessel’s hull
and capsize it against the jagged rocks of their teeth.

When secret orders are received from urgent wrists,
each shining cave closes its mouth with a fearsome roar,

and the subjects are cast out of the kingdom
until they are called back by the sun.